Before First Light
by METMA Mandy
Summary: Mr. Douglass is still a dangerous, crafty man. It's up to the gang, and of course Molly, to find him and bring him to his knees. But they aren't the only ones looking for Mr. Douglass, and its a race against time to find him before its too late... Sequ
1. Into the Fire

"Before First Light"  
METMA Mandy  
  
A/N: Well, I said I wouldn't do a sequel. I really did. But, of course, I couldn't stay away from the Weasley/Douglass saga for long. Here it is -- the prologue of the sequel to "Behind the Checkered Apron." (And you've got to have read that first.) The title comes from a famous quote.  
***  
  
"Mum, can I go play outside? Please?" Little Annabelle Sanderson turned to her mother, her very best puppy-dog expression on her face. "Please?" she added, fluttering her eyes in what she hoped was a pitiful manner. She held her breath, waiting for her mother's answer.  
  
"All right, all right!" laughed her brown-eyed mother. "No need to go into dramatics! Just don't get your clothes dirty, dear. Oh, and don't talk to strangers!" she added, shooed her young daughter out of the door into the bright sunny day, and headed back into the kitchen. She shook her head, a smile still on her face.   
  
As soon as her mother was safely out of sight, Annabelle grinned, dropped to the ground, and rolled down the hill outside their home. The soft grassy hills were better than any Barbie doll her mother could buy her, she thought, sighing in delight. When she returned home tonight, she knew her mother would roast her for getting grass stains all over her clothes. But it was definitely worth it, she decided.  
  
A few minutes later, tired and dizzy from rolling, she rose and brushed herself off. But no sooner had she gotten off the ground when she desperately wished to be back on it, safe out of the sight of the meanest boy in the village, Danny Brenner. He thrived on making fun of her; Annabelle couldn't think of a time when he had ever said something nice to her. It was just what she needed, for him to see her all covered in mud and grass. She tried to creep away and hide behind the trees, before he on his bicycle could catch up with her.  
  
"Hey! Anna_bull_!" he shouted sarcastically, breaking into a sprint on his bicycle. "You're even dirtier than usual ... did you try to grow a brain again?"  
  
Annabelle rolled her eyes in disgust, and broke into a run. When Danny was bothering her, there was one place she could go where he wasn't able to follow her on his gleaming red bicycle. It was just beyond the lane, where the land had yet to be developed. There was a little forest with trees grown so close together that the light that shone through was like stars in a green, leafy sky. Within the forest was a tiny little abandoned mine shaft, that years ago had been overflowing with workers. But when the minerals ran out, so did the workers. Now it was perfectly empty, and just big enough for a little girl to fit in. It was cool and dark, and most importantly, Danny-free.  
  
The leaves crunched under Annabelle's soft footsteps as she trotted happily to her secret hide-out. Looking over her shoulder, she noted gleefully that Danny had stopped chasing her and had gone to look for some animals to torture. Boys had the _shortest_ attention spans.  
  
When Annabelle was just a few feet away from the brush that covered her shaft, she heard a strange popping sound within. She frowned and crept closer, now making sure to keep quiet. If someone had found her hide-out, she would just have to get it back. But now she could see a green, glowing light creeping out from the normally dark shaft. It didn't look like the flashlight she had left in there, but more like a glowstick, unnaturally florescent green.  
  
_Crack._ Annabelle froze, realizing that whoever was inside could tell she was coming. She tried very hard not to breathe, or make any sort of noise whatsoever. But she was very young, and the leaves on the nearest tree were tickling horribly. She slowly moved her hand to scratch her face.  
  
In a flash, strong arms surrounded her, pulling her down, down into the mine shaft. Annabelle got a quick glance of the man who was holding her, and struggled and cried out in a panic. He was old and wizened, yet his eyes were alive and flashed madly. Although Annabelle had never seen an insane person, she was sure this man was. She swung her arms, trying desperately to tear at his scraggly bearded face, but he didn't budge an inch. As swiftly as he had grabbed her, the man threw Annabelle to the ground. She crawled away, like a hurt puppy, trying to escape. But with a quick word from the man, the entrance to the shaft was suddenly blocked. She shook her head in disbelief; how had he done it? Yet this was all too real. She was trapped.  
  
"Wh-what are you going to do to me?" whispered Annabelle, tears running down her face. She had heard horror stories from her mother of what dirty, crazy men would do to girls they caught, and she shivered. The incident with Danny Brenner now seemed so very far away.  
  
The old man seemed to guess what she was thinking, and opened his mouth to speak. His voice was a husky croak, as if he had not used it for quite a while. "Nothing so childish as that ... no ... you've got something much better in store, _dear_." From his back pocket he pulled the source of the mysterious greenish light, that she had thought might be a glowstick. Except, it wasn't; it was a long stick of wood that looked curiously like something she'd once seen on a television show... a wand.   
  
Annabelle opened her mouth to scream in horror, but nothing came out. She whimpered mindlessly in fear, trying to paw her way through the rock walls of the shaft. Her mind was screaming at her body to do something, _anything_, to escape, but it seemed incapable of doing anything but worthlessly cowering.   
  
"You see," the madman continued in an amiable manner, "I certainly can't have you blabbing to all the Muggles where I'm hiding out. No, no, that wouldn't do at all... I'll have to make sure you don't tell, won't I?" He began to approach the corner where Annabelle was huddled, his wand drawn out before him. His eyes shone with a murderous gleam that was perceptible even in the dim green wand light.  
  
"No..." whispered Annabelle, her last protest magnified sharply by the rock walls of the mine shaft. As Mr. Douglass spoke harshly the two words that could cut off life forever, he couldn't help but think to himself that he was hard. He was ruthless. And nothing could stop him from getting his revenge on those that had robbed him of the life he'd once held dear.  
  
In a house on a hilly lane, a mother called anxiously for her lost daughter. The echoes of her many calls whispered through the grove of trees. But the rustling leaves gave no answer.  
***  
  
A/N: Where IS Mr. Douglass? What's happening to Molly and the gang? These questions and more will be answered in the next chapter. Please review -- leave guesses, ideas, praise, or criticism. I have to give a huge thank-you to Juliette for helping me with getting this bit started, Rach for beta-reading, and of course all of you lovely readers who liked "Behind the Checkered Apron." You inspire me!  
  



	2. Window to a Dream

**A/N:** *grins* Yay! Molly makes a return! Don't you love those 4 hour car drives? Here's the first chapter of my new series, "Before First Light."   
***  
  
Molly Weasley yawned, kissed her husband goodnight, and turned out the magical room lights. She rolled over under the warm covers, getting comfortable on the soft bed. She blinked -- once, twice -- closed her aching eyes, and began to dream...  
  
It was inky black, and her surroundings were bathed in shadows. Molly walked around blindly, fumbling in her pocket for her wand. In a moment, she found it, lit her wand, and nearly screamed. For there in the room, his face spookily outlined by the wand light, was her father. He grinned like a carved jack-o'-lantern, his eyes wide and menacing. An odd, sinister smile was plastered on his face.  
  
"Hello, Molly," he said, and his voice filled the dream-Molly with terror. She turned and ran in a burst of adrenaline, feeling her feet pound the pavement. But no matter how hard she sprinted, she never seemed to move an inch; and her father was there over her shoulder, always, grinning that crazy smile that froze her heart in her chest. The more she ran, the less she seemed to move, and Mr. Douglass behind her changed into a serpent with sharp, poisonous fangs seeking her blood...  
  
Suddenly, Molly tripped, and fell on her face. It didn't hurt, but when she turned to get up, he was there, in human form, looming over her. She stumbled, trying to squirm away, but his gaze held her there, so full of malice and power.  
  
"Nooo... nooo..." moaned Molly, crying as if she was once again only ten years old. Worlds away, her own sleeping body whimpered with her.  
  
"Ah, yes," smiled her father wryly, flicking his serpent tongue. He advanced on her, pulling his wand out of his pocket, cackling like a jackal of the night. He allowed her one last useless plea, and then, inches from her wet face, whispered the last words...  
  
Molly woke up, sweat pouring down her forehead. She opened her mouth to scream in terror, but found she was too frightened to. Her heart raced in her ear, beating, beating, with the speed of a drum-roll.  
  
It was okay, she told herself. It was just a dream. But her body wouldn't believe her -- it had felt so real, and her father's mad eyes still stared at her when she blinked. Her stomach felt shaky, as though she had traveled by way of Floo Powder. She rolled over, shaking like a leaf, and shook her snoring husband awake.  
  
"Wassamatta?" he asked groggily, falling back asleep after finishing his sentence. Molly shook him again.  
  
"Arthur, it's my father ... it was so terrifying, the dream..." But her words sounded flimsy even to herself, and she felt silly to have woken Arthur up. Now that she had heard her husband's voice and realized she wasn't being chased after all, the dream seemed very far away. Molly took a deep breath and lay back down in bed, cuddling up against her husband. It was just a dream, she told herself, staring blindly into the dark. Even so, she didn't dare fall asleep again that night.  
  


***  


  
Morning dawned over the quiet house on the lane. The sun rejoiced in its daily birth, pushing away the silent moon and filling the world with vibrant color and life. But this house, the house on the hill, remained untouched by the sun's zeal. This was a house of deep sadness, a house of loss. A house of death.  
  
Annabelle's mother's face was streaked with tears as she finished doing the morning dishes. She knew the dishes could wait, but she needed something constant in her life when her pillars of normality were being pulled down. Her beautiful daughter was gone forever, stolen from her by a nameless, faceless pursuer. Why had he wanted Annabelle? She didn't know. But he had wanted her, and she had died alone in terror in the deserted mine shaft.  
  
Mrs. Sanderson's chest heaved with another sob as she failed to hold herself together. It had always been just the two of them, she and Annabelle, since her husband had died in a car accident when Annabelle was only two. But today, the day of Annabelle's funeral, she had to come to grips with the fact that she was now wholly, utterly alone in the world.  
  
The doorbell rang, startling Mrs. Sanderson out of her reverie. Wiping her tears on her already soaked handkerchief, she stumbled towards the door and swung it open, wondering who of the funeral guests could have arrived so early.  
  
It was a man, tall and thin, who Mrs. Sanderson had never seen before in her life. He looked fairly elderly, but was wiry and healthy. He strode over to the bleary-eyed woman in the doorway, and patted her shoulder sympathetically.  
  
"How are you, poor dear?" he asked, his voice full of pity. "You might not remember me -- oh, of course you wouldn't, you were so young when I saw you last -- but I'm Donald Benstock, your great uncle."  
  
Mrs. Sanderson stared at him openmouthed before finding her voice. "C-come in, won't you?" He accepted her invitation, and she led him to the kitchen and bade him to sit down.  
  
"Would you like any tea?" she asked, pouring herself a cup.  
  
"Yes, thank you," he said, with the air of a perfect gentleman.  
  
"I believe I remember my mother always going on about some wonderful uncle of hers, you know," she said, offering him a bag of sugar. "I'm sorry about the state of the house," she apologized. "It's just that my mind has been -- well -- elsewhere, lately."  
  
"Not at all," he said. "You're holding up wonderfully. Ah, yes, I remember your mother! She was always smiling and laughing, a lovely woman."  
  
"Yes, she was," sighed Mrs. Sanderson. She felt so much less lost and alone talking to her kind great-uncle.  
  
"Now, when I heard what happened -- a terrible business, I hope they catch that scoundrel -- I knew you were alone and you might like, you know, a bit of help around the house until things settle down. I remembered that when my wife passed away, one of my friends stayed with me until I could get back on my feet. I could never thank him enough. So I'm here to offer you a helping hand, if you'll take it."  
  
Mrs. Sanderson burst into tears. "Oh, thank you, thank you! You're s-so k-kind!"  
  
Mr. Douglass wrapped her in a tight hug, and she sobbed onto his shoulder. He smiled wryly. "It's no trouble," he said, smirking, "no trouble at all."  


  
***  
  


The bright midday light shone into the uppermost room in the Burrow, where two boys were still in the depths of sleep. The sun, at the apex of the sky, beamed down through the open window into Ron's closed eyes. He stretched out, his toes reaching past of the bottom of his extra long bed, and rolled out of bed, yawning.  
  
"Harry, wake up!" he whispered. Harry opened his eyes groggily.  
  
"What now?" muttered Harry, rolling over.  
  
"Wake up, you old lump," said Ron, louder. He examined the clock. "It's noon already! You're sleeping the day away! C'mon," he said again. "I bet the girls were up hours ago and are making all sorts of plans to make us sit through hours of _sewing_ lessons." He made a face, disgusted.  
  
Harry grinned, resigned to being awake. "All right, I'm up! But it's only because I don't like the sound of that sewing lesson," he shuddered.  
  
"Sewing? Come now, you don't think we'd bore you with that, do you?" scoffed Hermione from where she had appeared at the door.  
  
"We would never! We'd much more likely teach you something useful, like how to play croquet," said Ginny, sticking her head inside the door frame as well.  
  
"Croquet?" shouted Ron, nearly choking. "Good thing I woke you up, Harry! Their evil minds are already hard at work!"  
  
They laughed heartily, and Hermione tossed a pillow at Ron's head for good measure. Of course, Ron couldn't let that pass, and soon the room became the battlefield for a pillow fight. So wrapped up were they in their feud that none of them noticed that a very old, very powerful wizard had just apparated onto the front lawn.  
  
Thoroughly battered and winded, Ron and Harry waved a mock white flag (Ron's underwear) at the girls. "We give up!" wheezed Ron. "You win! Just -- no croquet, all right?"   
  
Ginny and Hermione laughed triumphantly. "Oh, we'll just see about that, won't we, Hermione," said Ginny mischievously.  
  
"Yes," she said, grinning at the boys, "we might get an urge to play, you know..."  
  
Harry laughed and threw his hands in the air. "Okay, we get the picture! Just let us put some real clothes on, won't you?" The two were still wearing pajamas.  
  
"All right," conceded Hermione, "but you had better not try to escape!" She closed the door, and Ron and Harry turned, grinning, to find some suitable clothes. A few minutes later, dressed, they rejoined the girls in the hall.  
  
"By the way, Ron," said Hermione, looking shrewdly at him, "was that your _underwear_ Harry was waving about?"  
  
"What?" he choked out, turning a brilliant red. "No, of course not!" Ginny and Hermione giggled madly, and traipsed to the stairs. But upon reaching them, they heard a voice that had grown familiar to them over the years, speaking in an unusually grave tone.  
  
"Dumbledore?" whispered Harry, "What is he doing here?"  
  
"I don't know," whispered back Ron, brows furrowed. "Shh... listen."  
  
Dumbledore's musical voice floated up the stairwell, so that the four could hear every word clearly. "... Might wonder why I asked you for your diary, Molly," he said.  
  
"Yes, I rather did," replied Mrs. Weasley. "Why...?"  
  
"You see, in the days following the Triwizard Tournament," -- Harry gulped -- "I've been devoting all of my time to studying Voldemort. His movements, his plans -- I've had to consult my pensieve a good many times, I'll tell you. And amid all of the other faces that remained prevalent in my mind, yours was there, Molly."  
  
"Mine?" she gasped.  
  
"Yes. I didn't understand why, at first, but then news of your disappearance reached my ears, to my great dismay. I wondered if your unhappy disappearance might be linked to Voldemort... I still do, in a way."  
  
"What?" she asked, puzzled. "I'm afraid I don't see the connection."  
  
"Your father, Molly. A Mister Rupert Douglass, able to elude capture for so many years, use you to get revenge, and then escape again, right out from under our noses. Let me be frank, Molly -- I think your father is important, and I believe Voldemort thinks so as well.  
  
"Have you ever wondered how he was able to remain hidden for so long? It is no small feat, you realize, hiding from the Ministry of Magic. Very few have gone more than a week before being captured. But your father did it..."  
  
"But ... why would You-Know-Who want him?"  
  
"For his mind, Molly, for his mind. Voldemort is an amazing strategist, but he is ever seeking that brilliant, manipulative mind that will help him succeed where he once failed. And your father, Molly ... he has a special power, a power he has cultivated, that would be very useful to Voldemort. That power, I dare say, might be the grain of sand that tips the scales. It is imperative that we find him before Voldemort does. In the hands of the Dark Lord, your father could become the instrument of our destruction...  
  
"So I come before you asking your help, Molly. If you have any idea, any hunch of where your father might have disappeared to, give it to me, I beg of you."  
  
"I'll do whatever I can to help you, Albus," said Mrs. Weasley, shaken.  
  
"Thank you. And now, I'll take my leave." Mrs. Weasley showed Dumbledore to the door, and he apparated away from the house with a loud pop.   
  
From their perch at the top of the stairs, the four teenagers stared at each other, mouths open in shock.  
  


***  
  


A/N: Yay! Chapter one is out! It's getting exciting now, isn't it? In the next parts, you'll find out more of Mr. Douglass's plans, what will happen to Molly and the gang, and more! But only if you REVIEW! A huge thank-you is due, as usual, to athena_arena, Juliette, and the monkeys in my head. :)  
  


Big thanks to all who reviewed on FF.N or the Yahoo!Group, including but not limited to:  
  


**American Hermione** (Thanks for looking this over! You know you want Pulin...)  
**Athena_arena** (Ah, Rach, you rock! What would I do without you?)  
**Aurora Lynn Rose** (Very beautiful review, ALR. I'm so proud! *wipes a tear away*)**  
Goddess of Fire** (Look... I wrote more!)**  
Jessica C. Malfoy** (You can thank athena_arena for the mine shaft... it was going to be a cave but she said they didn't have many of them in England.)**  
Jennie-chan, a.k.a. ~J.C.~** (So weird... I had a teacher last year named Mr. D... but not Douglass)  
**Juliette** (Thanks SO much for plot-bunny help!!)  
**lil_girl_renegade** (I agree... poor lil Annabelle... *sniffles*)  
**Megaroni** (Awww, thank you Meg!)  
**Pie** (Yup, Mr. D is a bad bad man!)  
**Ron Weasley's Cutie** (Eep! Not the keyboards!)  
**Rose Weasley** (Ahh! Don't kill me! I'll finish it!)  
**xoe** (Hmm... your lucky ONE of us knows where the plot is going, lol... see ya on the bus, softball buddy!)  



	3. Tears of Fire

A/N: Sorry this took so long to get out. Whoops. This chapter is dedicated to METMA, which celebrated its 1st birthday recently. Mummy loves you! ^__^ Thanks again to Rach, the wonderful beta-reader! This chapter also alludes to The Odyssey, which I obviously didn't write!  
***  
  
"Ron, you're being irrational!" shouted Hermione, her usually calm and serene voice an octave higher than usual as she angrily yelled at her red-haired friend with a temper to match.  
  
"No, I'm not!" he retorted, his chestnut eyes burning with anger. "You are, if you think I'll sit here doing nothing while he's out there, endangering us all..."  
  
"But Ron, Dumbledore is taking care of it! Leave it to him!" Her voice now was pleading; the voice of one who knows they have lost.   
  
"Don't you see I can't?" he replied passionately. "If it was your family, Hermione, you might understand. I have to go."  
  
"But we don't know where to start looking," Hermione muttered obstinately, but she knew that she was defeated.  
  
"Then we'll just have to figure it out, won't we?" said Ginny, standing up. "Because I'm not staying here either, just waiting..."  
  
Hermione sighed. When Draco Malfoy had said all Weasleys had red hair and too many children, he'd missed their one crucial quality; Weasleys were uncommonly brave, and likewise uncommonly stubborn. The look of resoluteness in Ron's eyes was enough to tell Hermione that nothing she could say would change his mind. She'd just have to come along.  
  
"Well, let's pack, then," said Hermione helplessly, motioning to a smirking Harry to help her drag a trunk into the middle of the room. Before she could move, she was swamped by Ron and Ginny hugging her and ruffling her hair, shouting thank-yous. Hermione blushed terribly, her face a deep scarlet.  
  
"Don't make me change my mind," she threatened, pushing them off, but she looked secretly pleased.  
  
The room was a flurry of activity. Cries of "Wingardium Leviosa" could be heard as clothing and food flew through the air. A Standard Book of Spells, Grade 5 shot by Ron's head like a cannonball, only missing his head by a finger-length. Finally, after an hour of work, and with the help of much magical shrinking, they bewitched everything to fit into a solitary trunk. Harry's glasses were askew, and Hermione's hair was bushier than ever, but they were done. They stood back, admiring their handiwork, as the moon crept out of its hiding place and slowly made its way to the highest point in the cloudless, inky night sky.  
  
"Oh, wait," said Hermione suddenly. "I've forgotten something." She dove earnestly into her trunk and emerged in a moment with an enormous, heavy, leather-bound book waving triumphantly over her head. Its golden title flashed brilliantly in the light -- Hogwarts, A History.  
  
Ron groaned. "For the last time, Hermione, I'm not going to read that book! Give up!"  
  
"No, Ron," laughed Hermione, rolling her eyes. "You don't have it read it, I just thought it might come in handy."  
  
Harry tried lifting the trunk with the newly added book's weight, and quickly dropped it back down. "Oof. It better really come in handy, Hermione."  
  
She scowled good-naturedly. "Why don't you two use all that energy you're wasting on teasing me to go check if the coast is clear downstairs? I do feel bad for leaving your mum again so soon, but I suppose there isn't anything we can do. Did you write a note?"  
  
Ginny nodded. "Yes, and we've left it on the table where they'll find it. Mum and Dad went up to bed a moment ago -- they think we're just chatting away -- so we'd better go soon."  
  
With those words, the four realized the enormity of what they were about to do. This wasn't one of their little adventures; this was real, and they were plunging headfirst into danger. If they took that first step out of the warmth of The Burrow, there was no telling whether they'd come back. Was it worth it, risking their lives when they should really be keeping their noses out of it? Could they instead stay, reading the news of Voldemort's attacks and wondering if they might have made a difference? Which should they choose, Scylla or Charybdis?  
  
Ron was the first to break the gloomy silence. "None of you have to come, you know," he said quietly. "But I've got to go on."  
  
"Don't be daft, Ron," said Harry, "we're coming."  
  
With his words, the tension in the room broke, like thin ice on a frozen lake. They quietly filed out of the room, dragging the trunk behind them. As Ron stepped stealthily out of the sitting room, careful not to wake the adults from their light and restless slumber, he saw a mysterious shadow of something resting on the kitchen table.   
  
"Hold on a minute," he whispered. Intrigued, he examined it closer, recognizing it as a tiny book. But it wasn't just any ordinary book; it was his mother's own worn diary. He picked it up, looking at it for a moment, and impulsively stowed it in his knapsack. As he turned his face away from the table, he saw in his mind's eye Dumbledore leaving it there, Dumbledore with a hidden smile in his eyes.  
  
Ron shook his head, tiptoeing over the threshold of the house to join the other three. He thought to himself that perhaps Hermione was right after all; Dumbledore was taking care of it. It was just his way...  
  
He took one last look at his sleeping home, and then padded away silently in the darkness. The vibrant moon overhead smiled.  
  
***  
  
Slowly, slowly, the pallbearers lowered the small coffin into the gaping hole in the earth. The priest recited loudly a psalm that was supposed to comfort everyone that Annabelle was at peace. It didn't seem to be working; Ms. Sanderson's tall frame was racked by sobs. As she haltingly explained to Rupert Douglass, crying onto his shoulder, she blamed herself for Annabelle's death. She should never have let her go out alone, she cried, after all the warnings she'd heard!  
  
Ms. Sanderson wasn't the only one mourning. Annabelle's entire class at school had turned up. Some of them didn't understand, asking questions like "Where's Annabelle?" that a teacher stammered to answer. But most of them did, and sadly realized that their playmate, the sprightly girl who'd been so good at jacks, was gone. Even Billy had come, looking not like a bully, but a young, vulnerable boy. All in all, there wasn't a person with dry eyes in the little crowd huddled around the grave.  
  
Except one. Mr. Douglass's mind was far away from the sweet little girl he had killed. Instead, he thought of another funeral, one he had attended when he was barely older than Annabelle. It was astonishing how clearly he still remembered it, after all these years -- every glance, every word, every tear.  
  
It had been a bright, sunny day, much like this one; the kind of day his father had loved. Young Rupert, not more than thirteen years old, stood alongside his crying mother, as his father was lain to rest.  
  
Rupert didn't cry. He wasn't a little baby anymore, he thought stoically, and it wouldn't do for him to act like one.  
  
In truth, he didn't really know his father. They'd always had different interests; Rupert enjoyed reading, alone in a silent room, while his father was a football fiend, and enjoyed the hustle and bustle of a busy house. Whenever the elder Mr. Douglass had tried to talk to Rupert, or sit down next to him as he read, Rupert would tersely say, "I'm reading," in a tone of voice that made it clear to Mr. Douglass that he wasn't wanted.  
  
So, unsure of what to do, he would rise and exit the room, leaving Rupert staring moodily out of his window.  
  
When the Hogwarts owl had come, bidding Rupert to leave home for nine months out of the year, Mr. Douglass wouldn't hear of it.  
  
"I'll not have you away from home for so long!" he shouted. "And how do you know this is a good school? Teaching you magic?! We've already got you down for a very good school, Rupert, one I went to when I was your age. Don't you want to follow in my footsteps?"  
  
"Dad, I want to go to Hogwarts!" erupted Rupert, his bright eyes flashing in anger. "You don't understand, I don't want to be like you! I hate you!"  
  
And then there was silence. Mr. Douglass slowly rose to his feet and signed the permission form, tying it back on the owl's outstretched leg. Rupert, with a queer look on his face, turned and ran from the room.  
  
It was a quiet summer. The force of the dark malicious words hung between them. It tortured the two as Rupert got onto the Hogwarts Express noiselessly, leaving his father only with a wave. The words were always there, like an unwanted shadow. Every letter, every summer break was tainted with the words that had not been forgiven, had not been retracted, but merely ignored. The father and son were civil to each other, but this was not what anyone would call a loving relationship.  
  
Every time they met, Rupert resolved to take it back, to tell his father that he didn't really hate him. But every time the words would be swallowed whole by the dark demon of his pride. Next time, he thought to himself. I'll tell him next time.  
  
One bright April morning, a regal owl swooped down over Rupert's house table, bearing mournful news. There would be no next time.  
  
Rupert stood blinking back warm tears beside his mother, while his father laid cold in that hateful box. Was he sorry, too? Did he wish he could turn back the clocks of time, and say what he never had? Did he wonder if the ruined relationship was all his fault? Did he lay awake at night, holding a quill that refused to put on parchment the words of his sorrow?  
  
Hot tears fell down soft, rounded cheeks, hot tears that burned relentlessly. There was no need to ask whose tears they were. Rupert knew they were his.  
  
In a different time, hot tears ran down another's face, a face full of worry lines and wrinkles that tried to catch the deluge of fat teardrops. But the wrinkles soon gave up, allowing the tears to slip freely down her tired face.  
  
Two pairs of eyes were full of scorching tears.  
  
Both begged for forgiveness.  
  
***  
  
As she had the night before, Molly Weasley slid into the comfort of her bed, pulling her warm covers around her. Yet her simple routine felt cold and alien, and she moved through the steps unseeing. Nothing was the same. Nothing could ever be the same, not anymore, now that she knew her own father could be the instrument of the destruction of all that was good and just in the world.  
  
Molly blankly wondered why she hadn't figured it out herself. Of course he had special powers. Hadn't she, strong-willed as she was, fallen to his mysterious ways? Hadn't she aided him the moment he asked her to, not asking any questions?  
  
But she hadn't seen it. She was too blind, and now it was too late for her to change him, her dangerous father. Miserably, Molly wondered if his turn to the dark side was completely her fault. He had betrayed Johnston to save the business so that he could support her; he'd broken out of jail so that she could breathe free; he'd taken them into hiding to save her from the harsh world. And she'd left.  
  
He was almost normal, then, she reflected. He was still my father. But then she'd left him -- so selfishly, she thought now -- left him alone with his dark thoughts. And the seed that would root out his love, his moral boundaries, began to germinate. Tended by years of brooding, it blossomed into the black-hearted flower that now threatened them all.  
  
Why had she left? It was her fault...  
  
A tear rolled down Molly's face, seeping into her laugh lines, and she uneasily fell into a restless sleep. Immediately, she began dreaming -- her dream picked up where yesterday's had left off. Her father was pointing a wand at her, dark shadows covering his face. Only his eyes were discernible from the rest of his face; they glowed like fiery coals in his skull. He learned over her, staring into her own brown eyes, and whispered coldly. "Do you fear your father, Molly?"  
  
Of course she feared him. How could she not? But at the challenge, the fiery obstinacy in Molly's soul awakened, pushing away the nameless guilt she felt. It wasn't her fault he was this way. He couldn't try to blame anyone for the his character but himself.  
  
She smiled, content knowing that perhaps his powers didn't work on her after all. "No, father, I don't."  
  
He stared at her a moment, reading in her eyes that she truly meant it. "Eve did not fear the snake," he said, finally. "But her children did." As he said the words, he became a snake, emerald green, with scales that struck like jeweled daggers. Molly felt an electric shock of fear rush through her body as the snake that was her father slithered away. Her children ... her children...  
  
Molly awoke, flinging off the covers and jumping out of bed. Her feet padded along the cold wooden floors, and she breathlessly reached the closest room -- Ginny's. She tiptoed to the door, placing a trembling hand on the knob. She turned it, holding her breath ... but before she saw the room, she knew it was empty. They were gone. Molly knelt down, sobbing, and somewhere, an emerald serpent smiled.  
***  
  
Big thanks to all who reviewed on FF.N or the Yahoo!Group, including but not limited to:  
  
American Hermione (Thanks for reading this over! You rock!)  
Athena_arena (You know I love ya, Rach! Thanks for helping me defeat those plotbunnies!)  
Ayla Pascal (So glad you liked the chapter! Hope you like this one as well.)  
Fallen*Angel (Creepy? This story? Never! ...Well, okay, maybe a little.)  
Juliette (You rock!)  
"Rabies" (Yup, I get headrushes allll the time. That's what helps me come up with this stuff, yup.)  
Ron Weasley's Cutie (Please don't sulk in the toilet stall! See, I got the chapter out! Thanks for the fun review!)  
xoe (Oh, darn, I wanted it to be a secret. *sulks* Heh.) 


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